


It's In Your Head

by HighlyOpinionatedNerd



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Civil War, How you doing?, Hurt/Comfort, Just gonna throw that out there, Mental Instability, based heavily on my personal headcanon, hey there 2017 Hetalia fandom, hope you enjoy!, this has slight elements of the FACE Family in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-15 23:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11816649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighlyOpinionatedNerd/pseuds/HighlyOpinionatedNerd
Summary: When the American Civil War breaks out, England hurries to New York to see America, only to find him bruised and broken, his mind tormented by the split in his country.





	It's In Your Head

News of the attack on Fort Sumner reached England through a short newspaper article, two days after the event had actually taken place. It hadn’t even made the front page. The tone of the article was crass, almost careless. Words like ‘inevitable’ and ‘unsurprising’ were used. It was highly implied that the British had better things to concern themselves with.

That one, short article hit England like a blow to the jaw. He’d been so busy recently, he hadn’t stopped to make time to check in on America. He hadn’t seen this coming, and now it might be too late for him to do anything about it. But no, there had to be something he could do...surely... America was too young. England couldn’t let this happen.

“Sir?” came the nervous voice of his assistant, snapping him back to the present. “Are...Are you alright, sir?”

“I’m fine.” There was broken glass at his feet; he’d dropped his teacup.

“Here, let me clean that up for you, sir.”

“No. No, I have another job for you. I need you to book me a ticket to New York, as soon as possible.”

The assistant frowned. “I can do that sir. But, are you sure you’re alright? You’re not acting yourself.”

“Yes. I’m fine.” He knew he didn’t sound convincing. “Just, please, a boat ticket. I’d like to leave today, if possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

It was a journey of several days by steamer from London to New York. For someone who had lived as long as England, the days often slipped by so quickly that he hardly had a chance to notice. But now, with his guts clenching up in worry every waking hour, they seemed to drag on and on.

When they finally landed in New York, he wasted no time in hailing a hansom cab, promising to pay the driver double if he could get to his destination within the hour. He told the man the latest address he had for America, praying it hadn’t changed since they’d last spoken.

England preferred to stay close to those in power in his country, choosing to live a fairly stable and comfortable life in London, where he could keep an eye on things safely. Not so with America. The young country liked to stay closer to his people, constantly moving from state to state, going from large city to small village and back again. He scoffed at England’s protests for him to stay in one place, claiming that it was all a great adventure.

The hansom cab took him through block after block, finally stopping outside a three story apartment building in the middle of a residential area. It was a little shabby, a little worse for wear, but not unkept. Just the sort of place America would gravitate to.

England walked inside, up to the front desk. “Excuse me, miss, I was hoping you could help me out with something. I’m looking for Am- for Alfred Jones.”

The middle-aged woman behind the desk raised an eyebrow at England. “You know Alfred, do you?”

“Yes. He’s, well, he’s like a brother to me.”

“Top floor, last door on the right,” she told him, pointing towards the stairs.

“Thank you.”

He started to walk away, but she called out after him. “He’s not been acting himself, lately. Know anything about that, do you?”

“I do. That’s actually why I’m here. To try and help.”

She nodded, apparently satisfied. “You haven’t exactly come at the best time. But I was beginning to think there wasn’t anyone to come for him. He’s a sweet boy. You do what you can. Stay as long as you want.”

“Thank you,” England repeated sincerely. He never knew what he was going to get when he talked to an American. Sometimes they surprised him with their compassion and selflessness, especially among the poor. Perhaps that was why America was so keen on travelling, seeking out the best of his people.

He hurried up the stairs to the third floor, down the narrow hallway towards the door he’d been directed to.

“Alfred?” he called, knocking loudly. “Alfred, it’s me, Arthur. Let me in.”

From inside there came a series of banging and bumping, followed by the sound of the locks on the inside of the door unlocking. The door opened a crack, revealing one of America’s startlingly blue eyes.

“You can’t come in,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t be here. This is my problem. Go home.”

“No,” said England firmly, gripping the edge of the door and trying to pry it open. “I’ve seen this before. Let me help you. Please.”

America stared at him for a moment, then nodded mutely. He released the door, and England stepped inside, closing it behind him.

The apartment was a mess. Books and papers littered the floor, scattered everywhere. A table in the next room was overturned, and some of the paintings on the walls had been slashed.

“Shit,” England muttered under his breath. It was worse than he’d feared. How could it have gotten this bad already?

“You really shouldn’t have come,” America said quietly. He stood in front of England, shuffling from one foot to another nervously, his eyes flicking back and forth. He was stripped to the waist, revealing a number of fresh bruises and bleeding cuts across his chest. He looked thin, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

It broke England’s heart to see him like this.

“America,” he said, dropping the pretense of using real, normal human names, “I’m so sorry. I am so sorry this happened to you. But it’ll be ok. I’m here, and I’m going to help you.”

“You can’t help, England. It’s too late, they’ve already started fighting.” America’s voice was trembling. “All they do is fight, and fight, and _hurt_ me, and I can’t think straight anymore…”

“No, it’s not too late. It’s not, America, I promise.” England took a step forward, extending his hand. “Let me-”

“No,” America snapped suddenly, cutting him off. “You know what? This is all your fault in the first place, isn’t it? You’re the one who put me in this situation. Aren’t you!?”

England quickly withdrew his hand. In a heartbeat, all the nervousness and insecurity was gone from America’s face, replaced with twisted anger. “America, stop, you don’t want to-”

“Oh, don’t I?” This time it was America who took a step forward, England who pulled back. “I warned you. I told you you shouldn’t have come. But you didn’t listen. You never listen! And I am _sick of it!_ ” he snarled, balling his fists and advancing forward again.

England quickly shuffled backwards, raising his hands. “America, stop! Stop! This isn’t you, please, just stop, let me help you…” He backed against the apartment door and froze, absolutely terrified of the raging, injured man in front of him.

America drew back his fist, a look of pure hatred on his face. England closed his eyes, anticipating a blow.

But it didn’t come. Instead he heard a pained gasp, and opened his eyes. America was clutching his shoulder, where a new cut had just opened, spilling blood freely over his fingers.

“It hurts,” America whispered, his eyes welling with tears. “Please, help me, make it stop, make them stop, please…”

England reached out to America and pulled him close, hugging him tightly. “Don’t worry,” he murmured into the other’s hair, fighting back tears of his own. “Don’t worry. I’m here, America. I’m right here.”

 

England brought America to the apartment’s bedroom and urged him into bed, pulling the covers up to his chest.

“Stay right there,” England told him, gently brushing blonde hair out of America’s eyes. “I’m just going to tidy up a bit, ok? I’ll be right out there if you need anything. You just get some rest.”

“England...I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you...I think…”

“It’s ok. You won’t.” England tried to smile reassuringly. “Don’t you worry about me, America. You just focus on getting better, ok?”

“Mmm,” America hummed, closing his eyes.

England straightened up and left the room as quietly as he could, but left the door open, just in case.

The little apartment was such a mess that he hardly knew where to start. He still felt shaken by the sight of America, so hurt and so angry, so torn. If he was being honest with himself, he was scared. It was like something out of his nightmares, something from back in the days of Revolution.

He shook his head. This was something entirely different, he reminded himself. This time, it wasn’t about him.

Resolutely, he began rolling up his sleeves, determined to do what he could to help America through this. Even if the only thing he could do was clean up his apartment, damn it, he was going to give it his all.

And he did. Days turned into weeks, and through all that time, England stayed near America’s bedside whenever possible. He cleaned the apartment, he tended to America’s wounds, and he watched over his friend as much as possible. He even cooked; though America usually complained about England’s food, in his docile state he ate whatever was put in front of him without complaint.

He wasn’t always docile. Sometimes he screamed and raged, a physical manifestation of the violence tearing through his people. When that happened, England left the room and barricaded the door until it was over. He hated doing it, but was forced to admit that he was no match for America’s strength, and that the best he could do was let America get it all out.

The weeks became a month, and England tried to gauge how long this could continue. It was hard to tell, with so many factors in the mix, but he was afraid that it would take years. The American Civil War was complex, and was fought with passion and conviction on both sides. It was devastating.

 

One day, out of the blue, there came an urgent knock at the door. It startled an unsuspecting England, who had been busy at the kitchen stove. Hastily he dusted off his hands and headed for the door, hoping the knocking hadn’t woken America, who was sleeping calmly for once.

The knocking continued as he approached. “Alfred!” called a voice, muffled through the door. “Hello? Are you in there? Let me in, please, Alfred!”

England groaned, recognizing the voice. Quickly he unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Shut up, you bloody idiot! I’ve only now just got him to sleep!”

France blinked in surprise, his fist still raised as if to knock again. “England? What are you doing here?”

“Get inside, you loon, before someone hears you!” England hissed, grabbing France by the sleeve and dragging him through the door.

“Hey, hands off!” France shrugged roughly out of England’s hold. “What the hell, England! Why are you even here?”

“Keep your voice down,” England snapped. “I’m here looking after him, of course. What are _you_ doing here?”

France frowned, crossing his arms. “I just wanted to check up on my friend. Got a problem with that?”

“Yes, actually, I do. This doesn’t concern you. Go away.”

“Wha- How can you say this doesn’t concern me? It concerns me just as much as you. What happens to him affects us all; you know that.”

“Well, maybe you should have thought about that before you contributed to this situation.”

France sighed. “I should have known you were still mad about that,” he muttered. “It was the right thing to do, England!”

“No, it was your way of getting to me through him! Don’t deny that you only wanted-”

“You can’t pin this on me withou-”

“Both of you, stop, please.”

England and France quieted immediately, turning to see a ragged America standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

“Mon Dieu,” France breathed, seeing the cuts and bruises that now covered America.

“You shouldn’t be up,” England said. “America, go back to sleep and let me deal with this.”

“No,” America said quietly. He seemed more lucid than he had in quite some time. “France has a point, England. You should leave.”

England blinked. “Leave? No way. Who would take care of you? I have to stay.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re not _normal_ , England. We don’t need to eat, or sleep, or anything like that. So let me be. Take care of your own people. Let me deal with this.”

England opened up his mouth to protest some more, but France laid a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head. “He’s right. Let’s go, and leave him to it.”

England was speechless for a moment, trying to find the words to argue, but coming up with nothing. Finally, gritting his teeth, he turned his back on America.

“Have it your way,” he choked out, heading for the door, France behind him.

“Thank you, England,” he heard America say, before France closed the apartment door, leaving the two of them alone in the hall.

“...Will you be alright?” France asked tentatively.

“Fine. I’m fine.” England balled his fists to keep the tears from spilling over onto his cheeks.

“This is important for him,” France said. “He needs to go through this, in order for him to grow up to be the country he was meant to be.”

“I _know_ , France.” England took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I guess I should go back home. There’s work waiting for me there.”

“I think I’ll visit Canada before I head back,” France mused. “Who knows how all of this is affecting him.”

“That sounds good.”

They stood there for a moment, in silence.

“But before I go,” France said hesitantly, “I suppose I could….walk you to the dock?”

England chuckled, running his hand through his hair. “I don’t need you babying me. I said I was fine.”

“Maybe I want to go to the port, take a ship up to Canada’s place. Did you think of that?”

“Oh, you’d better not follow me, you lousy dog. I don’t need your pity!”

“Hey, that was mean, England!”

They walked down the stairs, through the lobby, and out onto the New York street. England turned to walk towards the docks, and France fell in step beside him.

England didn’t say anything. It was the closest thing to ‘normal’ he and France had had together in a long time.

“He’ll be ok, you know,” France said, mistaking the thoughts behind England’s silence. “He’s strong.”

“Oh, I know.” England spared a glance back at the little apartment building. “He’s already stronger than the both of us put together. And when he comes out of this, he’ll be stronger still. I know he will.”

 

The Civil War lasted for another four years. It was bloody, and it was tragic, but it _was_ important.

Looking at America afterwards, one would never have known that he’d spent all those years on the brink of insanity, living in fear and pain. All his scars healed, and all his usual energy returned.

He was whole once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!!


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